


Diagnoses

by pickleplum



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Coping, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pickleplum/pseuds/pickleplum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a diagnosis changes everything. Sometimes it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Break

I return to our studio apartment in Stanford after my applied number theory lecture and Newt is nowhere to be seen. It’s nearly noon and this absence is unusual as he’s normally into his second pot of coffee and (almost literally) bouncing off the walls waiting for me to join him for lunch by this time. It’s been that way since we moved in together six months ago. “Newton?”

There’s a pathetic whimper from behind the curtain that separates the sleeping area from the rest of the room. He’s curled up on his knees, hands clasped on the back of his neck in the narrow gap between the bed and the wall. His breathing is ragged and he’s rocking ever so slightly. I don’t remember crossing the room, but I’m kneeling next to him with my hand pressed between his shoulder blades. He winces like he’s been stung.

“Do-don’t-don’t touch me, please!” He loves to be touched.

“Newt? What’s wrong? What’s happening?” I try to keep my voice even, calm. My hand hovers over his back hoping for permission to make contact.

“I can’t … I can’t … I can’t …” He’s whispering it like a mantra. “I can’t … I don’t … I don’t know … Help me… I don’t know what’s happening… Help….”

“Newt, can you stand? I think we need to go to the health center.”

“I can’t….”

“I think you can. Let me help you.” I risk gently grabbing him under the arm and guiding him to his feet. He complies with the pressure even though he’s trembling now. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks lost and terrified. His glasses are missing. I release his arm to retrieve them from the floor at the foot of the bed. He immediately sinks back to the ground, though this time he remains sitting upright. He clutches and pulls at his hair as the shaking gets worse. He’s whimpering continuously now.

“Newt, I’m going to go get your shoes. I’ll be right back. Do you understand?” He nods. I wrestle a pair of brogues onto his feet. I’ve never been more grateful for the ugly things. I get him back to his feet and lead him out of the apartment. He’s leaning so heavily on me our progress looks more like staggering than walking.

I don’t bother to lock the door. Nothing inside is worth the delay.

The five block trek to the health center takes centuries. I’m half-carrying Newt while he babbles about how he’s afraid he’s becoming aphasic and that he’ll never be able to understand speech again. I try to dispute his statements--gently, quietly, very gently--but I don’t think he listens. He stops twice to throw up. I clean him up as best I can and we keep walking.

He immediately takes up the same hunched position I found him in against a wall of the waiting room. “Where are we?” he asks repeatedly.

I give him the same answer each time as calmly as I can. “Newt, we’re at the health center. We’re going to help you. We’re going to make this stop.” I want this to stop. I’m nearly panicking. I can’t help him if I panic.

After ten minutes like this, I ask the receptionist to move us to a consultation room in hopes it will help Newt relax. If it keeps me from beating the pricks who keep staring at us and whispering that would also be a worthy outcome. We’re ushered into the back, me guiding Newt with an arm around his shoulders. He’s curled on the floor again as soon as the door closes. I coax him up to sit on the exam table. Without letting go of him, I pull over a chair and sit, both of my hands gripping one of his. He’s still shaking. We begin our call and response again. “Where are we?”

When the doctor finally arrives and checks Newt’s vitals and while Newt seems somewhat calmer, I risk leaving him for a moment to call his mother. “Ms. Schwartz? It’s Hermann Gottlieb. Yes, Newt’s boyfriend. Newt has had some sort of … episode. No, he is not injured. No, I am not sure what is causing it. We are at the student health center now, but I am afraid he may have to be hospitalized. It might be best for a family member to be available. Yes, I will inform you of anything I learn as soon as I am able and give your contact information to the doctors.” I disconnect and let my head rest against the wall for a moment before re-entering the exam room.

Newt is staring confusedly at the doctor who is offering a him a cup with a pair of beige pills in it. “Sedatives?” I ask the man. He nods. “Let me try.” I fill a paper cup with water from the sink, take the pills from the doctor, and move to stand directly in front of Newt. I crouch a little so that we are eye to eye. “Newton, take these, please.”

“What are they?”

“They’re a sedative. They’ll make everything softer. Please take them.” I press them into his open palm and give him the cup of water. He swallows the pills.

Without taking my eyes off Newt I ask the doctor what he thinks is happening. “If I had to guess, he’s having a psychotic episode. Has this happened before?” I tell him that it hasn’t since I’ve known Newt, but that he’d been a little more scattered than usual for the past two days. “I’d like to send him to the hospital for a full workup and diagnosis. I think the mental health people should take a look at him.” He pauses. “Does he have family in the area?” I shake my head.

“His family is in Boston. Here, there are just me and a few other friends. I have already called his mother.”

In the transport services car that carries us to the hospital, Newt falls asleep with his head in my lap. I stroke his hair and praise god that he finally has some peace, even if it’s only temporary. When we arrive I carefully wake him and surrender him to the hospital staff. We’re separated at the reception area for the psychological services department by a ‘family only’ policy. I don’t start a fight to be allowed inside and take my place among the outdated magazines and uncomfortable furniture.

No one will tell me anything about what is happening to Newt no matter how often I beg. I catch myself chewing my nails, something I haven’t done since primary school.

Newt’s mother arrives from Boston late that evening. It’s the first time I’ve met her face-to-face. She’s a petite woman with brilliant green eyes like her son’s. She hugs me (I try not to flinch) and thanks me for calling her. “Where is he?” It’s obvious she’s been crying.

“I am not sure. The staff won’t tell me. You need to check in at the nurses’ station before they will allow you to see him.” She nods and hurries off. I’m jealous she’s allowed into the room while I’m exiled to the visitors’ lounge. I find the most comfortable position possible on the hard couch and try to doze.

Someone quietly calls my name and shakes my shoulder. I nearly jump out of my skin and find myself blinking into Ms. Schwartz’s face.

“Newt had a psychotic break,” she says. “Things could have been much worse if you hadn’t found him when you did. He might have hurt himself. The doctors say he has bipolar disorder and this could happen again.” She takes my hand and I fight off the urge to pull away. “I understand completely if you want to leave. This is a lot to deal with, but his family will take care of him.”

I can only stare at her. “What-what do you mean?” I stammer.

“An illness like this is a lot for someone who is not family to handle. You’re young and haven’t been involved with Newt long. You might not wish for a lifetime of dealing with this sort of trouble.”

I realize she is trying to be kind, comforting, understanding, but I am horrified. “I am not leaving. I love all of Newton and this is part of him. I am not leaving him and certainly not right now.”

I don’t think she believes me.

I can’t understand why she feels the need to give me an excuse to leave. Abandoning Newt never crosses my mind. It--I--would be inhumane to do so. Wrong. I think it would kill me, too.

When Newt is finally released two days later, Ms. Schwartz gives me thirty minutes notice. I run across campus faster than I thought I ever could and meet them, red-faced and puffing, at the door. Newt is obviously still heavily sedated, almost asleep on his feet. He looks younger than eighteen. I march right over and crush him with a bear hug. I think I hear his spine crack. “Hey.” He’s breathless from the embrace and doesn’t seem to be able to properly focus his eyes, but he leans against me. For the first time in 48 hours, I relax. “Where’ve you been?” he asks.

My breath catches and I mentally flail for a moment. I settle on “Waiting for you.” He gives me a sleepy smile. “I love you. I’ve missed you so much,” I add and kiss his forehead.

He snuggles against my chest. “Same,” he mumbles into my jacket.

Then it’s time to leave. I force myself into the taxi with Newt and his mother, grabbing the door before Ms. Schwartz can push it closed behind Newt and climbing in. She’s taken aback but she thankfully doesn’t argue, just goes around to the other side of the car and seats herself. We are silent the entire drive. I hold Newt’s hand. Newt hugs me, a little desperately I think, in front of the ticket counter. I don’t want to let him go. Not now. Not ever. But I do and he heads for the gate and his plane to Boston.

The first two days after Newt leaves are the worst. The phone calls aren’t enough to stem the worry. I think I have a panic attack. I wake shaking and covered in sweat both nights from nightmares I can’t remember. I spend an afternoon in a park overlooking the bay watching the water and trying to remember how to breathe without choking. The third morning I make a decision.

I make one of the hardest phone calls of my life. I’m dizzy and nauseous afterward but I get what I need. I tell my professors and TAs I have to deal with a family emergency. I hope they don’t investigate my excuse. I purchase a plane ticket and book a hotel room. I’m on my way to Boston that afternoon.

Of course it’s raining and awful when I arrive. The cab driver struggles to find the address in the South End I give him and has to circle the block twice before I spot the row house we’re looking for. I ring the bell for the first floor flat with the rain dripping inside my collar. I didn’t call ahead. I didn’t want to be told ‘no’.

I gather my courage as I hear the deadbolt slide back. Ms. Schwartz is speechless when she recognizes me. “Hello, Ms. Schwartz. Is Newt in?” I hear a welcome and familiar voice approaching the door.

“Who is it, Mom?” Newt reaches the foyer, barefoot and wearing pajama bottoms and a ragged t-shirt. “HERMANN!” He dives under his mother’s arm and hugs me with enough force that I have to grab for the railing to keep us from falling backward down the front steps.

Newt is more subdued than I’ve seen him, but he’s calm and coherent. We chat for an hour or two until Ms. Schwartz offers to call me a taxi to take me back to my hotel.

Newt argues with his mother in the kitchen while I try not to hear them. Eventually, he wins. I can stay. I call the hotel to cancel my reservation. I’ll need to pay for the first night, but the money I save will allow me to stay in Boston longer. I praise my own foresight in packing my nicest pajamas and sleep shirt.

Newt and I settle in for the night on the sofa bed (There’s no way we can share the twin bed in his room. Not the way he sprawls.). I wrap my arms around him and drift off listening to him breathe. It may be the best sleep of my life.

The next days fall into a pattern. We sleep late, eat breakfast, wander the South End until we get hungry, grab some cheap food, return to Newt’s flat, watch movies (or he’ll play video games while I read), eat dinner with his mother, talk for a while, and go to bed.

We talk about everything, whatever comes to mind, important or trivial. That’s not unusual. What is odd, though, is the way Newt sometimes can’t seem to decide whether he wants to touch me or even be near me sometimes. I can see a struggle going on inside him. On one of our rambles, I think I figure out what’s happening. I take his hand and pull him to a stop. I cup his chin and press my forehead to his. “Newt, I love you. You’re afraid I’m going to leave. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you. Believe me. Trust me.”

“Thank god. I believe you.” He hugs me so hard he nearly collapses my lungs. Things are much more stable after that. We even manage to start teasing each other and joking again.

“I don’t like these pills,” he tells me. “They make it hard to remember words. It’s like my head is stuffed with … stuffing. Er… you know … the soft stuff in teddy bears. I want to sleep all the time. Like, fourteen hours a day. I think I’m only waking up because you keep poking me until I do.”

“You should talk to your doctor about trying a different drug. If you’re not sure what to say, I’ll write you a script,” I offer.

“Do I have to read it in your accent for it to work?” It’s the first time he’s really sounded like himself since I found him on the floor. I laugh harder than I probably should out of relief.

My funds run out the second week. I have to go back to Stanford where my scholarships cover my expenses. As a friend drives us to the airport he asks “I’ve been wondering, how did you afford a trip to Boston? You don’t have a job and you’re on scholarships and loans.”

“I … ahem … called my family and asked for money.” I grimace. “I have to visit for a week this summer and be ranted at by my father.” I turn to Newt and smile. “But it’s worth it.” He laughs and kisses me. It is completely worth it.

When Newt returns to California a month later we settle into a rhythm. Every morning before I hand him his first cup of coffee (I stopped trusting him to handle the coffee maker before he’s caffeinated the first month we lived together) I ask if he’s taken his meds. He doesn’t get the coffee until I hear the water run into a glass and the pill bottle rattle.

The new prescription lets him return to his high-energy lifestyle. I worry he’s hypomanic most of the time, but he has no major depressive episodes and no more breaks. I pray the equilibrium holds.

He’s lost the spring semester and will have to repeat his courses the next year. After a week-long trip to Monterey Bay (including three full days at the aquarium), he feels a little better about that. I pass my courses, but my grade point average drops a tenth of a point. I don’t care.

The equilibrium holds through the remaining two years of college. I graduate on time with a degree in mathematics. I put off applying to graduate school to wait for Newt to finish his biology program.

I take a paid internship at Pixar while Newt finishes his final semester of courses. I develop an algorithm to automatically simulate the pull of gravity and air against various densities of textiles and fibers. I don’t think Newt has ever been prouder of me than when I show him the finished demonstration short. A scientist rushing around a lab in a billowing white coat. A white-haired guitarist in a loose t-shirt and ragged jeans flying across a stage. A young man crawling out from under the sheets and stretching in his flannel pajama bottoms in front of a sunlit window.

Newt’s the star, of course.


	2. Falling

Hermann and I are walking back from our favorite dive coffee shop in Cambridge hand in hand (No one looks at us funny. I love college towns.) on a gorgeous summer afternoon. We’re chatting about something, probably what movie we should watch with dinner, when he drops to his knees like someone blackjacked him, pulling me down on top of him. I yelp and he swears a blue streak in German while the passersby start looking at us funny. I scramble off him and help him to sit up. Both knees of his jeans are torn clean through and the scrapes on his skin are dripping blood. We sit on the sidewalk for a good five minutes while Herm catches his breath and I do my best to mop up the blood with his handkerchief before walking slowly home.

“Babe, this has happened four times already this semester. I really think you need to see a doctor. Young, healthy guys like you shouldn’t be falling over for no reason. I mean, your balance has always been shit but this is getting ridiculous. And nobody should be in as much pain as you are as often as you are.” He limps into the bathroom and growls at me to get the rubbing alcohol while he strips off his ripped and bloodied pants. “Jesus. You got your elbow, too. Let me get a look at that.” He lets me patch him up but refuses to talk about it. Again. I chew my lip and try to convince the coffee in my stomach to stay there. Please, god, let this be nothing.

It gets worse. Some days his right leg hurts so much he can barely walk, other days he just limps. I catch him leaning on furniture or the walls to cross the apartment. I beg him at least once a week to see a doctor. He makes excuses. He’s the most stubborn bastard I’ve ever seen. It’s part of why I love him so much. It probably helps him deal with me, because god knows I’ve driven off enough people just being me. He’s stuck with me through everything for seven years now, longer than anyone who doesn’t share my gene pool.

I finally put my foot down the day he goes blind in one eye.

He tries to hide it and succeeds right up until the moment he walks straight into a doorframe and gives himself a nosebleed. We’re in the bathroom with Herm sitting on the edge of the bathtub trying to stop the flow of blood (which is ruining the shirt I gave him for his last birthday, the green one that brings out the color of his eyes) when I notice that when I walk to his left, he cocks his head to watch me. That’s odd and my stomach flips. “I want to check something,” I tell him, doing my best to keep my voice steady.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” He rolls his eyes and gives the right answer.  
I cover his left eye. “How many now?” Right answer.  
I cover the right. “Now?” Wrong answer. Oh shit.  
Left again. “Now?” Right.  
Right again. “Now?” Wrong. _Ohshitohshitohshitohshit_.

“Stay right there. I’m getting your shoes. We’re going to the emergency room. Right freakin’ now.”

“It’s only a nosebleed!”

“No it’s _not_ , Hermann, and _you know it_! You can’t see out of your left eye! That’s fuckin’ serious! It could be a tumor or a stroke! We’re going _right now_ if I have to knock you out and carry your ass.” He gives in, grumbling, and even lets me lead him to the cab I call for us and into the hospital.

“You’re having trouble because your optic nerve is inflamed and not transmitting signals to your brain. We call it optic neuritis. I’ll give you some medication to reduce the swelling, but it could be a month or two before your vision returns to normal.” The doctor scribbles something on Herm’s chart. “I’d also like to send you for an MRI, just to make sure nothing else is going on. We’re booked up for the day, but the first slot tomorrow is open. Come back then.”

The doctor feeds Herm a couple of steroid pills, gives him a prescription for more to pick up on the way out, and tells us to be at the MRI clinic at eight.

I realize what’s going on. It’s all falling into place. There’s only one thing it can be with all the pain, falling, and vision problems. Wish I didn’t. Wish I hadn’t taken that _stupid_ neuropathology course. I need to be strong. I need to be ready to catch him when the doctors tell him because this is going to _crush_ him. Herm’s stubborn as hell, he’ll adapt, he’ll get through as long as he makes it through the first bit. I’ll need to keep him going somehow.

When I look over during the cab ride back to the apartment, he looks so much older than twenty-four. It’s like he’s aged twenty years during the afternoon. That’s when I know he knows what the MRI is going to show, too.

I pull him into a hug and he rests his head on my shoulder. I can feel tears seeping into my shirt. He doesn’t say anything. He never does when he’s scared, just grits his teeth and holds his ground.

I don’t think either of us sleep that night even though we crawl into bed early. I get up with bruises along my ribs from how tightly he holds me. I wear them like badges of honor.

I spend the MRI pacing around the little courtyard the hospital put in to give people like me who need to pace and scream somewhere to go so we don’t upset the patients. I’m almost jealous that Herm is a little claustrophobic and the techs gave him a sedative before the scan. I feel like I’m going to vibrate out of my skin. I make myself dizzy and have to reverse directions a couple of times. Okay. I can be more productive than this. I have mad science skills and an internet connection. I know what’s heading my way and I can prepare. I can be ready to ask the right questions and catch any bullshit the doctor might try to pass off. I pull out my phone and start reading everything (useful) I can get my hands on. Causes. Pathology. Symptoms. Treatments. Side effects. Prognosis.

There’s way too much ‘we’re not sure’ and ‘this doesn’t really do much but it’s the best we’ve got’. I mean, we’re in the fucking twenty-first century, you’d hope we’d have better answers than this. I make a frustrated noise and the guy hunched over at the other end of the courtyard gives me the oh-shit-that-guy’s-an-axe-murderer look. I can handle that. I’m not sure I can handle being told the love of my life has a disease that will break him a little more every year until it kills him or he kills himself. But I will.

The neurologist tells us what we expected to hear when we meet with him that afternoon. Herm’s MRI came back showing the brain lesions indicative of multiple sclerosis. Even though I knew it was coming I have to mentally shove my stomach back into place. Herm goes catatonic.

I listen for both of us even though my head is ringing. Ask questions. Take the scrip for interferon that the doctor hands me. And another scrip for steroids to help when the pain is too much. The drugs won’t slow the progression, but will keep the relapses down and make it possible for him to have something like a normal life. There’s nothing yet to slow the progression. No cure, either. The doctor’s on the level. I already know all of this. It doesn’t make it easier to listen.

Herm’s a ghost for the first week afterward. He takes his shot like a champ on Saturday morning and even helps me figure the budget so that we can afford the co-pays on his meds and still have enough for food and rent. But he’s back to flinching every time I touch him. He was like that when we first met and it had taken months for him to get used to being hugged or even having his hand held. He’s walking on eggshells around me, too, and it’s fucking unnerving.

Then I remember I did this when he came to Boston to be with me after I was diagnosed. I remember what he did for me.

I sit him down on the couch, put my hands on his shoulders, give him a little shake, and press my forehead against his. “Hermann, I love you. I’m not leaving. I won’t leave. I can’t leave you. Okay? Believe me. Trust me.” He nods and buries his head in the crook of my neck.

“God, Newt, I love you so much. I-I-I don’t want to hold you back. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to ruin….”

“Hey.” I shake him again. “Herm, you’ll never be a burden. I need you to hold me up, too. We’ll carry each other just like we have since we met.”

I think that’s the moment he finally starts to believe me because he grabs hold of my shirt with both hands and sobs into my chest until he falls asleep. I never let go. It’s still the only time I’ve seen him cry like that.

That doesn’t mean it’s smooth sailing afterward, not by a longshot. It takes about a month for Hermann to work his way through denial, anger, and bargaining. I give him whatever he needs--reality checks, mugs of tea, back rubs, leg massages, sex, time to vent, space, cuddles, whatever--willingly. But when depression sets up shop, he crawls into bed and goes mute. I’m terrified he’s going to do something that means he’ll never get up again. I know that suicide is one of the leading causes of death for people with MS. I hide all the medication, poisons, and sharp things in the apartment (We never find some of the knives.).

The third day he won’t get out or speak to me, I come up with a plan. I’m going to use his competitiveness and stubbornness against him. For him. Whatever. I’m going to force him to start living again. I just need to press the right buttons.

After a half hour of hard work in the living room, everything’s set. I march into the bedroom and fire up my most obnoxious voice, the one that makes me sound like a five-year-old who doesn’t want to eat his lima beans (Which really aren’t that bad when you get right down to it.). “Are you just going to lie there and mope yourself to death? You keep this up and I’m going to defend first. How embarrassing would that be? I’ll be ‘Doctor Geiszler’ while you’re just ‘Mister Gottlieb’. People might start thinking I’m smarter than you, in addition to being younger and cuter.” I kick the bed for emphasis.

“You will only need to open your mouth to correct any illusions about your intelligence. Now leave me alone you infuriating little….” At least he’s talking again.

“You think my mouth is infuriating? Wait until you see what I’ve done to your library!” He rolls over and glares at me. We’re moving in the right direction.

“ _What did you do?_ Those were organized in a very specific manner!” He’s pulling himself out of bed. Yes! “If you have fouled it up, I swear I will sell your bloody anime collection.”

“You do that and you’re next on the dissection table, buddy!” He’s made it to the bedroom door. Just a little farther….

“Oh. My. GOD. _YOU REARRANGED THEM BY COLOR, YOU UNBELIEVABLE ASS!_ ”

He’s made it to the living room and is thinking about something other than MS. HA! I WIN!

We argue and scream at each other the rest of the day about anything I can think of to say that will annoy him. It’s a good thing I’m the creative type. At mid-afternoon the landlord calls to say the other tenants are complaining about the noise. But Hermann stays out of bed and actually works on his proofs until we order Chinese delivery for dinner so it’s totally worth it. So’s the eviction notice we get a month later. We rent a house (Our new landlord is totally a saint. Seriously. Canonize that man.) and the neighbors only call the cops on us about twice a semester until MIT hands us our PhDs.

We add a few beats to our rhythm. He still won’t give me my coffee before I take my meds, but now I won’t let him out of bed on Saturday until I give him his interferon injection. He walks with a cane more and more and uses it against my shins to punctuate points during especially intense arguments. I start wearing extra socks (He buys me colorful ones with chibi designs on them). On the days when I’m too hyper to maintain his new, slower walking pace, I orbit him--walking ahead, circling back, over and over again until we get where we’re going. It’s kind of like dancing.

MIT must love us because they hire both of us (him, mathematics, tenure-track assistant professor; me, computational and systems biology, adjunct professor) the semester after we graduate. After that first semester, though, they do their best to keep us separated while we’re on campus. Even letting us eat lunch together, they say, contributes to a ‘hostile work environment’ for other faculty and staff. We flip them the metaphorical bird but we really try to limit the collateral damage. The students love the show and we (okay, maybe it’s just me) like to give them a good one. We find some videos of our best arguments on YouTube and laugh our asses off about the comments left on them. The one that ends with me up a tree with Herm shrieking at me from the ground in German nearly goes viral.

We write paper after paper together and start looking like the Mick and Keith of academia. We’re rock stars. After three years, Herm’s pretty much assured tenure and my department is begging the upper administration to put me on tenure-track. Yeah. We’ve made it to the big time.

Every year on our anniversary Herm thanks me for being an annoying little shit. It’s our private joke.

We finally buy a house in Cambridge. Our new neighbors are thankfully a little more noise-tolerant than the last batch (They’ve only called out the police twice in four years.), because we almost never stop bickering. It’s really important that we don’t.

We have to keep each other focused on living no matter how much it hurts. Whatever it takes. If I have to yell and scream and argue with him for the rest of our lives, I’ll do it so he stays mad enough to keep going. And I trust him to keep me grounded so that I don’t do something stupid and kill myself, accidentally or on purpose.

If everyone else thinks we hate each other that's just fine with us. We know what’s really going on.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for[the prompt](http://pacificrimkink.livejournal.com/2747.html?thread=3743931#t3743931):  
> “young college boyfriends Newt and Hermann going through Newt's initial bipolar diagnosis together  
> “grad student boyfriends Newt and Hermann going through Hermann's MS diagnosis together  
> ;__;
> 
> “(alternatively: Newt and Hermann going through the above as colleagues at PPDC per canon)”
> 
> I’m not totally happy with Newt’s voice in chapter 2, but I’ll assuage my guilt by saying that his inner monologue might sound different than his outer one.
> 
> I have some direct experience with bipolar disorder and none with MS, so please comment or message me about anything that’s not quite right and I will correct it, joyfully.
> 
> That said, a lot of Hermann’s experience and thoughts in chapter 1 come straight out of my memories. He does handle the situation better than I did on the whole, though. Hindsight.
> 
> In this world, our boys do their undergrad at Stanford (after Hermann transfers from Berlin) and their grad work at MIT. Stanford supposedly has a slightly stronger biology program, but MIT is tops in math. Both are still top five in the other field. I wanted to separate them while Newt recovered for extra angst (and romance).
> 
> Recommended listening: [Sons and Daughters, _The Repulsion Box_ , Track 1, “Medicine”](http://youtu.be/4AH0unggfqU).


End file.
